Undone Deeds

20

Bastian Frye moved with a formal bearing, methodical and deliberate, as if the act of walking into the suite was a practiced art. Despite his reputation as an assassin for the Elven King, I had never been in a physical confrontation with him. It was hard to imagine the frail old man in a fight. Of course, he had spent a lifetime learning shamanic rituals, honing his body in ways known only to the initiate, and as an Alfheim elf, his ability to manipulate essence rivaled that of the most powerful people in the world. He probably didn’t need to lift more than an eyebrow to defeat an opponent.

“You’ve brought war upon us, Mr. Grey,” he said.

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Bastian. How are the funeral preparations coming along?” I asked.

“Exaggeration? I think not. Intelligence reports indicate massive numbers of Celtic warriors moving on Germany,” he said.

“Not that part. The ‘it’s Connor Grey’s fault’ part. Donor brought this on all of us,” I said.

“But you killed him,” he said.

“I’m not going to lie, Bastian. Yeah, I killed him, but in point of fact, I was already dead anyway. It was pure luck I hit him with the spear. I’m not going to shed any tears for Donor,” I said.

“What do you mean you were dead?” he asked.

“He threw me off the damned building. I was falling to my death when I hit him with the spear,” I said.

Bastian relaxed, if going from very stiff to plain stiff was relaxed. “If you were dead, how did you survive?”

“That’s a tale for another time,” I said.

Bastian didn’t participate in conversations. He processed them, one line at a time. His deep eyes, dark wells of iris pinpointed with a rich blue light, stared as if he could read my thoughts. “I shall look forward to hearing it then.”

“I was hoping you could save the Boston P.D. some time and answer a few questions,” I said.

“The Boston Police Department and the Consortium are not on particularly good terms at the moment,” he said.

“All the more reason to earn a little goodwill, don’t you think?” I asked.

“Ask,” he said.

“An elven agent named Alfren was found dead in the Weird last week. Was he one of yours?” I asked.

“At one time. He was no longer in my employ though he did provide occasional information in exchange for funds,” he said.

“He worked for Vize. You had a plant on your own agent?”

“It is no longer a secret between us that I was often in contact with Bergin. Anything I needed to know, he told me,” Bastian said.

“So what information was Alfren providing you that was worth anything?”

“Alfren had connections in Park Square,” he said.

“The Guild? How does a former Consortium agent working for Vize connect to the Guild?” I asked.

“He was quite good, despite his flawed history. Unfortunately, his contact was not as careful,” he said.

“Dead?”

“A fall,” he said.

“The Danann at the power plant?”

“The same,” he said.

Talking with Bastian was an exercise in feints and jabs, admitting to something, then undermining its meaning. Done over beers about politics or religion, it was fun. When it was about murder and espionage, it was dangerous. People died if you misunderstood, and sometimes that was the intent.

“So they were both feeding you information,” I said.

Bastian’s long face cracked a thin smile. “That is the nature of double agents, Mr. Grey.”

And the risk, I thought. Going undercover was a delicate dance. You had to be smart enough to get close to valuable information, which meant you have to provide valuable information. But you had to be careful enough not to expose too much information and make someone suspicious about how you knew so much. If you went deep enough and long enough, you had to pay attention to the line between whom you worked for and whom you worked against. Some people lost sight of it. Those people usually ended up dead.

“You think the Guild had them killed?” I asked.

“Do you want answers or guesses? In coming to me, you have been thrown off the trail by Melusine’s suspicions. Do you prefer I send you down another false trail?” he asked.

In the world of undercover, it wasn’t a coincidence when two people who knew each other were killed within days of each other. “But you don’t know if the Guild was responsible.”

“I am saying that they provided valuable information on Maeve’s troop movements. Now they do not,” he said.

I nodded as if I agreed and understood. Now I had to decide what he was really telling me. Implicating the Guild but claiming he didn’t know might mean he wanted me to go after the Guild. On the other hand, he merely might be helping me sort through the evidence.

“What about the merrow that died? Was she involved with the other two?” I asked.

“That one is a puzzle. She was someone who worked for Melusine, then joined Eorla’s cause,” he said.

“Melusine is the reason I’m asking you,” I said.

He chuckled. “She has always enjoyed stirring the pot between the Guild and the Consortium.”

“All the solitaries do,” I said.

“Indeed. While I do not agree with what Eorla has done, she has given the solitaries hope that someone stands with them instead of relying on the whims of foreign kings and queens,” he said.

“That’s the fey in a nutshell. Today’s friend is tomorrow’s enemy,” I said.

“Yes. What concerns me more is that someone in our operations is a traitor. Undercover agents are understandable. Killing those agents is unacceptable. It is often difficult knowing whom to trust and whom to believe,” he said.

A small prickle went up my spine. When the dwarf Brokke knew he was dying, he told me to believe Bastian. Coming from someone who saw the future, it was hard advice to ignore. Sometimes you had to trust people who lied to you. Sometimes you had to believe people who didn’t act in your best interest. The hard part was knowing when to do which.

Bastian gave me the tiniest smile. “Are we done, Mr. Grey?”

I sighed. “Are we ever?”